Page 5 of A Night with Damien Spur

Next stop, backpack man got up and, pushing past Anna, roughly nudged her shoulder with his bulbous bag.

‘What are you doing? Bloody rucksack! You just hit me. Shouldn’t be allowed on a crowded bus.’

‘I am so sorry. I didn’t see you,’ he said in a clipped foreign accent.

‘Of course not! You blind fool! You’re a teenager. You don’t see anyone over the age of twenty-five. Yes, yes! Typical! You’re German, aren’t you? We know what you lot are like. Ruthless! Bagging mattresses around hotel pools at 6 a.m., while the rest of the guests are asleep.’

Anna stopped short. That’s exactly what her mother would have said. It just popped out of her mouth as if it were nothing to do with her.

Maybe she’d become bipolar? Could it be depression? David Rose had worn her down. How dare he make her suffer. It wasn’t as if she was his wife anymore.

Damn him!

The young man scuttled off the bus, shamed.

The next stop was Anna’s.

She ran along the pavement like an untethered emu. Arriving at the Edwardian building, she flung herself up the stone steps and rang the bell.

‘Hi, Sam! So sorry I’m late, had a terrible time on the bus,’ she said into the intercom. The porter buzzed her in.

‘Morning, Anna.’ The old Scotsman handed her the daily schedule and looked at his watch. ‘You’re fifteen minutes late, and it’s going to be busy today. Luckily, Nurse Aileen isn’t here yet. And you know what she’s like. A hard-working woman and a stickler for time.’ He had kind eyes, with a glimmer of good humour, despite his outwardly dour demeanour. Anna liked him.

‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll get to it. Just hope we don’t have any more problems with Dr Patel’s clients. His secretary fits them in like sardines in a can. And he always keeps them waiting. The women look normal going up and when they come down their lips look like… like… pork sausages!’

‘Anna, please speak quietly. Dr Patel is in the downstairs bathroom because there’s something wrong with the loo on his floor. The walls have ears,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ Anna moved closer to Sam and whispered conspiratorially, ‘But what about that Mrs Cougar, shouting and screaming at me the other day!’ You were off duty, but I’m sure you heard about it. Every five minutes, she said, “Call him again! Call him again! Call him again!” Like a broken record, and no “please”! As if it’s my fault she waited half an hour to see him. So, I said, “Please, there’s no need to shout – this isn’t a fish market!”. And that was it – she went crazy. Said she would report me for insulting her. ‘Anna, your tongue is running away with you. Calm down.’ The porter looked askance, as Dr Patel appeared.

Anna paused as the dapper doctor bounced up the stairs. Then, making sure that he was out of earshot, she grasped Sam’s arm and moved closer to him to whisper, ‘So, anyway, it gets worse. Then the other woman waiting to see the doctor started, said she was first. It got very vindictive. Well, what was I to do except tell them to keep their voices down? And then, can you imagine, they both turned on me.’

‘Anna! You are not the UN peacekeeping force. Don’t interfere with other people’s business. And it’s not your place to criticise Dr Patel. You’ll get fired if he hears you’ve been gossiping about him. Not that it would come from me. Now get on with your work.’ He patted her arm. ‘The first patient is due in five minutes.’

Happy to be ensconced in the peaceful reception room with its inviting brown velvet sofa, leather armchairs and polished walnut table displaying a tempting array of glossy magazines, Anna settled herself at the grand Edwardian mahogany desk and glanced at the appointment list, ready and waiting to activate her charm for patients.

Anna greeted an impeccably groomed, tall red-headed woman with a polite smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Askew. You’ve come to see Dr Lederman.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would you like to sit down? He shouldn’t be long.’

Mrs Askew gave Anna a cursory glance, picked up a magazine from the waiting-room table and settled herself in the leather armchair.

Not even a hello? How rude of you,Anna thought. No doubt your life is enviably neat. A house in the country, a flat in town. A wealthy husband who deals with financials, while you arrange perfect dinner parties between eating out at top restaurants, visits to the theatre and swanky holidays.

Christmas in Barbados? No, probably at the country estate with the family and then to the Caribbean or Mexico for NewYear.

Skiing in Feb, Gstaad or Courchevel? June in Sardinia or Santorini?

September to Kenya, South Africa, Zanzibar, not to forget weekends in Paris, Rome or New York.

That’s where I used to go.

We have more in common than you know. Probably stayed in the same hotels and no doubt you ate at my husband’s restaurant.

So perhaps you might be a little more polite next time. A nod would be fine.

Never mind, one day your husband will tire of your sour face, find a lovely young calf and put you out to pasture.

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